Chapter Text
Faramir looked at the great doors that barred the entrance to the Steward’s chamber and did not expect his Father would grant him audience. Faramir was Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien and that gave the man some weight behind his words, but Denethor was Steward and Faramir was i tadui hanar: the second son. One such as he would be lesser compared to his brother, Boromir. It was known to many that the siblings held great love for another and their remaining parent, but Denethor saved his affection for the older. In their Father’s eyes Faramir was less, Boromir was more - that was blatantly known to him. So, the young man gazed at the tall carved doors in uncertainty. He drew his breath and took a step forward.
At once the doors opened, unforeseen by him were servants drawing the doors with long ropes. Faramir kept his gaze straight. Ahead of him lay the throne of the absent king and, lower, the dark chair of the Steward. There he found Boromir standing, conversing with his Father, their heads drawn close as secrets passed between one another.
Faramir knelt and waited for Denethor to notice. The whispering ended and he heard a distinct clearing of the throat that indicated he was to rise. Boromir clasped his brother’s shoulder when Faramir was on his feet.
“Father,” Faramir bowed his head in respect, “I have come to you in this hour for the visions I have seen in my sleeping nights have become prominent and wholesome. In my ears before waking I heard strange voices repeating rhyme. I believe it is a message.”
Denethor looked at Faramir cooly. “I have heard ere your audience of these dreams you so speak; Boromir has received the same. Though now I know for certain that you have received it first, for reasons not known. But speak! Let not it be said that the Steward of Gondor wastes his hours! Convey to me your vision of much import and I will dispense what wisdom I contain.” Denethor sat back into his marble chair and his features became unreadable so as to truly understand, with great consideration, what was to be told.
“Very well. In my dream, which had been faint ere afore now, cruel voices echoed from the East. The sky grew dark and the nightingales shrieked in fear of a growing thunder. I saw in the West a pale light remained steadfast and from it came to me voices crying like none I have heard in my life:
Seek for the Sword that was broken:
In Imladris it dwells;
There shall be counsels taken
Stronger than Morgul-spells.
There shall be shown a token
That Doom is near at hand,
For Isildur’s Bane shall waken,
And the Halfling forth shall stand.
“In my mind I could make nothing of the message, and knowing of your wisdom and knowledge in the lore of our people I made great haste after my duties to entreat your consultation, just, as I see now, my brother has done. In this account I trust your judgement,” Said Faramir.
Boromir nodded to his brother before adding: “I have dreamt the same though in less detail.”
Denethor then leaned back in his chair, looking less like a haggard Steward but as a scholar of great learning. And after some thought he looked into the eyes of his children and it seemed to Faramir he was deeming which to be more worthy to seek this mystery out to the full. “I thank you, Faramir, for your account, for it is of great importance to me. I see now that one of you is to seek out Imladris of which this poem speaks. Imladris, as I have made known to you both before, is the name of where the Elves oft dwell far in the northern dale. Elrond the Halfelven, greatest of lore-masters, may reveal the answers to this riddle you have both brought me. Desperate, it seems to me, is the need of this task, for I find the skies in the East are darkening and perhaps it would favour all who preside in Minas Tirith, Gondor even, to seek this riddle’s end. But! I warn you my sons, this way may be filled with doubt and danger and who is to say the result? Ruin perhaps! Alas, I leave it to you.” So ended Denethor and putting his hands together, he awaited an answer.
“If there is danger to the city there is danger to all!” Said Faramir, stepping forward, “Let me journey to Imladris, Father! I am able, for you know of my skill with a blade. You have no use for me here, in any case.”
Boromir grasped Faramir’s shoulder and pulled him away to the side, just far away that their conversation would not be overheard. “Brother, let me go in your stead.” Said Boromir, concern evident in his dark eyes. “If this journey be wrought with doubt and danger let me take up my horn and shield against it! I too had the visions, though it is evident they were of lesser power. Let Boromir bear the burden of our people for I know you carry much which I do not.”
Faramir paused then and felt that what he may say next would change the chances of whatever strange history he was to be a part in. Then an awakening of courage and pride burst within him and he said: “I am not afeard of what is to come, my brother. I find I will not take your offer, no matter how kind it may be. You are needed here more so than I. You have evermore a head for battle, searching and waiting does not suit you.” Faramir playfully jabbed at his brother’s side.
Boromir looked on at his brother with concern, but recognised the need to prove oneself in his eyes. “I bow to you Faramir,” Boromir said nodding slowly. “I wish upon you the evermost speed and wit on your journey.” Then Boromir took a breath and hummed to himself in mental agreement. “I know it is the rule of our House that i erui hanar : the first son, is to bear it but I find that you may have need for it more than I.” And upon finishing he took from his gilded belt the Horn of Gondor. White and carved it was, the ivory smooth and shining in the dim light of the Royal Chamber. It’s form was aged and cared for, and it was apparent that Boromir had taken fine care of his birthright.
Faramir gasped and looked to Boromir. “Are you sure?” He asked quietly, his eyes scanning the crafted instrument.
“Aye.” Boromir said, placing it into his brother’s hands. “I trust you brother, and Father does too.”
Faramir scoffed and placed the horn at his hip. “Thank you brother, I-” But he was cut off by a firm embrace from his sibling. Slowly he wrapped his arms about Boromir. “I cannot promise not to come to harm, but I swear by our lost king that I will return to our kingdom.”
Boromir leaned away and clapped Faramir on the back again. “I am proud.” He said beaming, “Let us tell Father the decision has been made.” Together they walked back to the chair.
Again, Faramir kneeled; this time he brought out his sword and offered it up to Denethor. “Father, we have deliberated. I have deemed myself worthy of this task: to seek out Imladris and solve this vision’s riddle, wherever it may take me. Do you, my Steward, grant me permission to complete this quest?”
A silence filled the hall. The dim light illuminated the wrinkles on Denethor’s weathered face. His lips were turned down and a darkness clouded his brow. He seemed in deep thought. Behind Faramir, Boromir shifted on his feet, nervousness clear. Then, Denethor stood and placed his hand on his second son’s sword. “I, Denethor the Second, son of Ecthelion the Second, Dúnedain lord of Gondor and twenty-sixth Steward, grant thee: Faramir son of Denethor, leave on mission to seek Imladris and go wherever your quest takes thee. Rise now! and prepare! You leave at once for I have duties to impart.”
And so, Faramir rose and left the great hall to sharpen his sword and put away what little he would desire upon his journey. Upon finishing he spoke to Beregond of the Tower Guard on what his new duties would entail and rushed off to the stables to procure a swift horse and many a detailed map. Quickly, Faramir reached the gate of the city: there waiting for him was Boromir, his face grim and resolute.
Looking down from his mare Faramir nodded to Boromir.
“What is her name?” asked Boromir, patting the horse.
“Aglor.” Faramir said, stroking the chestnut’s long mane.
“Ah, ‘Glorious’ - how fitting! I see she will bear it well.” Boromir laughed and then swiftly his expression once more became stern. “Be safe brother.” Said he.
Faramir adjusted the reins and looked, for the perhaps last time at his brother. “I shall be.” He said. And so, off rode Faramir, son of Denethor, in search of Imladris. And it would be many days and nights before he reached his destination.